


tasting heartbeats in skin tears

by OverMyFreckledBody



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Derek Hale is a Little Shit, Embarrassment, Finger Sucking, Humiliation, Implied Sexual Content, Licking, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Werewolf Healing, magic werewolf healing spit, thats the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-26 15:03:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19008223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OverMyFreckledBody/pseuds/OverMyFreckledBody
Summary: After a battle resulting in Stiles getting a cut on his face, he discovers that the werewolf healing can be transferred through the saliva. After that, he seems to be a magnet for getting hurt - more so than usual.Derek is surprisingly helpful about it all. Now, only if Stiles could get through their licking sessions without embarrassing himself.[Or, 5 Times Derek Healed Stiles with his Magic Werewolf Spit + the 1 Time He Left a Mark of his Own.]





	tasting heartbeats in skin tears

**Author's Note:**

> document title: "lickfic" 
> 
> okay also, this is more situational goofs than sexy. i'm bad at writing sexy, okay? but stiles embarrassing himself? i can do that   
> but also, it's got like. actual somewhat sexual situations in it, so. basically, it's kinda porny, but silly and not super good porn, dw 
> 
> i wrote this because i wanted more "licking ~~disguised as~~ to help heal" fics, and it shows.
> 
> i listened to so much halestorm for this fic, guys

i.

 

                Stiles doesn’t realize that he’s bleeding until it’s all over.

 

                He remembers something being flung near his face, yes, but he’d been distracted the second afterwards because Erica had slammed one of their opponents into a tree. It was a pretty loud and distracting act, and the sound of the dude’s skull cracking against the bark? Just plain sickening. And not in the cool, _dude, that’s sick!_ way, but more of the _oh, fuck, I’m about to vomit_ kind.

 

                Now that they’re done fighting and he has the opportunity to take a breather, Stiles can feel the stinging sensation in his cheek. It doesn’t ache or burn so much as it’s an annoying prickling stretching from just beneath his cheekbone to his jawbone. As the others settle down – Scott literally collapsing onto the ground – around him, he licks his lips and gingerly touches two fingers to the area.

 

                He pulls his hand back with a wince, looking down at it. There doesn’t seem to be much, but it has definitely started bleeding. He just hopes that it’s as shallow as it feels and won’t scar. It’d probably look pretty cool, but it would be the least inconspicuous thing he could take home, after say, a baby or a chopped off limb.

 

                After all, what else says _Beacon Hills’ Number One Supernatural Defender!_ like covered in scars and smelling like wet dog?

 

                There’s a brief thought following that on how he’ll probably end up with some inevitable scars later on if this hellhole of a town doesn’t calm the fuck down – and then there’s something _else_ in his face.

 

                At least this time, it’s not anything sharp.

 

                Instead, it’s Derek. Derek, who is still looking a touch bit feral around the, well, sideburns, and blazing, bright eyes. It looks like he also has some blood on his face, though considering the fact that it’s mostly around his mouth or in spatter patterns, it’s probably not his own. Stiles opens his mouth to greet Derek with a quick _what’s up_ , but before he even gets there, Derek is grabbing at his face, careful not to touch the wound or slice him up further with his claws.

 

                “Uh,” Stiles tries, but doesn’t try to stop Derek. At least, not until –

 

                Until he darts in quickly to slide his tongue, warm, hot, wet, probably still slick with someone else’s blood and what else, along Stiles’ new cut.

 

                “What-!” Stiles spits then, trying to jerk his head back, arms coming up to press against Derek’s chest. Neither do him any good, as Derek just adjusts his grip and presses closer, lapping again, determined to... what? Give Stiles an infection, probably. “What the fuck? _Dude_! What are you doing?”

 

                A quick glance around shows that the rest of the others are not paying attention. Either, Stiles is usually attention seeking enough after a battle ( _not true_ ) and they’re used to it, or… they know what Derek’s doing and it’s not something to worry about.

 

                That doesn’t mean that Stiles wants to deal with the consequences of someone’s blood contaminating him, because _holy shit Derek is smearing that shit all over his cut what the fuck_ –

 

                He finally gets his palms into a stable enough position against Derek’s chest and _shoves_ him off. Or, a step and a half backwards, because, seriously, human versus werewolf here, but it’s still enough to shake Derek off for a second there. He’s still looking a little hairy around the edges, but his eyes have reverted back to their normal, impossible state. Green? Gray? A very light blue? It depends on the light, and the weather, and quite possibly Derek’s mood at the time.

 

                At the current moment, it’s kind of dark, so Stiles is going to stick with green. A very pretty green, regardless.

 

                This is so not important or at all relevant.

 

                Stiles steps back himself before Derek can continue on whatever the hell he was doing, and reaches up to swipe at the wet mess of his cheek. He knows that no matter how dirty his own hand is, it’s probably safer than Derek’s goddamn _mouth_.

 

                “If you just gave me hepatitis,” Stiles starts to threaten, as Derek stares at him, unblinking, wordless, “You’re the one who’s going to have to make sure my dad doesn’t drink himself into the ground with me.”

 

                Okay, so they’ve made great strides in medicine and he probably wouldn’t _die_ , but it’s still serious and –

 

                Wait.

 

                He squints, pausing, and he watches as Derek’s eyes dart to where Stiles’ fingers have frozen in place. Derek licks his lips, taking a splotch of red with his tongue as it goes.

 

                (It could be dirty, diseased blood; that sight should _not_ be sending little zig zag patterns of heat through Stiles’ own veins.)

 

                The cut. It’s gone. It doesn’t sting anymore, and Stiles can’t feel it. He knows his fingers don’t have _that_ thick a layer of grime that he cannot feel differences in texture, so the cut itself must be the what’s wrong about the fact that his skin feels smooth and wet, rather than sliced open.

 

                He meets Derek’s gaze with wide eyes.

 

                Letting out a shaky breath, his fingers press harder into his skin, still searching for the wound he knows he isn’t going to find. “Holy shit. Holy _fuck_.”

 

                Derek doesn’t react much, other than licking his lips when Stiles gasps a still confused, “ _Derek_ ,” but before Stiles can ask how the hell he did that, how he _knew_ to, or, or even _thank_ him –

 

                Boyd is striding over, stepping right beside Derek. He, too, is covered in the mess of the fighting. One half of his jacket is covered in mud and there is dried blood flecking from his temple. The second he reaches them, Derek turns from Stiles, features melting back to his human side as if he’s been that way the whole time. If Boyd noticed the change, he doesn’t question it or make any comments. He just jerks a thumb over his shoulder, towards the others, the message clear without having to be said.

 

                _Everyone’s ready to go when you are, boss._

 

                Guess that’s that, then. Stiles still doesn’t have any answers, and he’s still touching his face, but Derek doesn’t turn back to him to give any sort of reprieve, so Stiles follows. Whatever. He knows he’ll find the time to bug Derek about it later.

 

                He trips over a rock on the way out and watches the way Derek’s head tilts, barely so, to listen in and check that Stiles is okay.

 

                The action sends little tingles through Stiles’ chest and stomach. He ignores them and focuses instead on not falling on his ass.

 

* * *

 

 

ii.

 

                Stiles doesn’t get the opportunity to bring it up until a couple days after the whole event. Scott had needed a ride, and Boyd and Erica had ridden with Derek, so they’d separated before Stiles could properly grill him for answers. Answers, plural, because he has so many freaking questions.  

 

                Questions about _why_ Derek’s whole process is made up of things like this one, the whole _lick first, explain later_. About _what_ actually happened there. About _how_ Derek knew it would work – and that it wouldn’t be some bad blood sharing thing instead. If Stiles wanted some stranger’s DNA in his bloodstream like that, he’d have started in the shadier back alleyways, rather than the middle of a hunter/pack dispute.

 

                He especially wants to know why…how…about the fact that it had moved so fast. Derek still seemed to be affected by the adrenaline pumping in their veins, not yet in complete control of himself. It was a strange sight to see, Derek’s shifted face up so close. Stiles has seen it a couple times, here, and there, but never right _there_ in front of him. The most he’s usually seen aimed in his direction would be a flare up of the eyes, but they’ve always been so far away, so unlike that night.

 

                Today, Stiles is pretty sure that there isn’t any pack stuff going on, so he makes his way to Derek’s place, glad that he’s finally got the time to do this. Up until now, it was busy making sure that everyone was alright or healing alright (no major injuries suffered this time), and then double checking that there wasn’t anything else about to pop out and pick a fight, too. By this point, if there’s something out there, it’s biding its time and will attack when it’s damn well ready.

 

                As for folks who are _already_ ready, Stiles is ready to get some answers.

 

                He walks in without knocking or otherwise announcing himself, knowing that Derek would have already heard him anyway. He glances around to see what Derek’s doing as he sucks on the side of one of his fingers where he’s gained a recent paper cut. It still stings, and sticking it in his mouth doesn’t really help, but he likes to pretend that it makes him feel better.

 

                On a ratty couch that Stiles has always been surprised to hear that the ‘wolves enjoy using, he finds Derek reading a book. Without a jacket on it, he can’t tell what the title of it is, and he’s unsure if it’s more amusing to pretend that it’s some shitty classic that Derek would genuinely like, or something ridiculous like a straight up dictionary, or _50 Shades of Grey_.

 

                However, he does like to pretend that Derek at least has better taste than _that_.

 

                …do they make hardcover dictionaries? Surely they do.

 

                Derek doesn’t actually look up, even as Stiles moves toward the kitchen to grab a glass of water, or if Erica has actually left him some for once, orange juice. What does get Derek’s attention, though, is when Stiles pulls his finger out of his mouth, accidentally making a louder _pop_ noise than he meant to.

 

                He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to. The way his eyes shift first to the finger in question, then to Stiles’ face, all without changing his unimpressed expression, well, that says it all. So, Stiles just shrugs in return and twists his hand to show the cut better, regardless of whether or not Derek can actually see the tiny thing. “Paper cut.”

 

                Nothing bad or unusual. Just a twinge of pain every now and then that’s annoying, but not a lot anybody could do about it.

 

                Except –

 

                Except, unless, of course, they were a werewolf with mysterious healing powers they can somehow share, via licking.

 

                “Hey,” Stiles starts, attempting some nonchalance, but with the way Derek’s eyes narrow, he knows he misses it. “Do you think if you licked this one too, you could heal it up?”

 

                Derek’s gaze darts back to Stiles’ hand, and seemingly subconsciously, he licks his lips.

 

                Stiles’ feet take a step closer without his complete control.

 

                When Derek looks back up at him, Stiles would have thought that he’d have frozen in place, but instead, he keeps moving. He doesn’t break their staring contest, nor does he say anything, but he doesn’t stop moving until he’s inches from the seat that Derek is curled into.

 

                Without a word, he offers his hand, palm face up. The cut isn’t bleeding, hasn’t for hours, but the skin around it is still wet and shiny from Stiles’ own spit.

 

                Derek doesn’t look at it, doesn’t stop staring at Stiles’ face, not even when his fingers, gentle and soft, curl around Stiles’ wrist and slowly guide the tip of his finger into his parting mouth.

 

                He can feel his mouth go dry. Which is funny, considering the fact that Derek’s mouth is _not_.

 

                No, it’s the opposite of how Stiles’ mouth feels right now. Hot and wet. His tongue comes up as Derek’s cheeks hollow, sucking the finger deeper inside. Stiles can’t help himself, he trips forward, wanting – _needing_ to be closer. He falls to his knees in front of the couch right as he can feel Derek’s tongue dragging so sinfully slow along his skin.

 

                And then it’s over.

 

                 Watching the way his finger slips out of Derek’s mouth, gliding along his bottom lip, he’s struck with the thought of how all the saliva on it must be Derek’s now; Derek must have swallowed his own.

 

                All at once, he wants nothing more than to just stick his finger right back into his mouth, even if it no longer aches.

 

                “Better now?” Derek asks and – fuck him. Fuck him for not sounding at all affected, like Stiles obviously is. Fuck him for looking amused when Stiles can finally tear his gaze away from that _beautiful_ mouth. Fuck him for taking away Stiles’ ability to form coherent thoughts or sentences.

 

                Stiles scrambles himself to his feet and jerks his head in the other direction to look anywhere else as he tries desperately to find something to say. He thinks this is probably just as funny to Derek as before.

 

                “Yeah,” he finally settles on, but it’s weak, even to his own ears. “Thanks.”

 

                He rubs a hand over his head before shaking it and just heading for the kitchen. He knows Derek will still be able to hear the stupid rabbit pace of his heartbeat from there, but it will give him the illusion of privacy that he needs to calm down. He came here for a reason – and that reason was _not_ to embarrass himself in front of Derek.

 

                At least, not like this.

 

                He makes it just out of view before he caves and sucks on his finger again, imagining his tongue can chase the taste that Derek must have left behind.

 

* * *

 

 

iii.

 

                “I have more questions.”

 

                Derek looks up from where he’s been carefully rolling Stiles’ sleeve up, after seeing that Stiles would wince every time he’d tried to do it himself. Damn fabric would irritate the wound and given the fact that he couldn’t even use his dominant hand, it made things kind of difficult.

 

                He rolls his eyes and gets back to his work. “Of course you do.”

 

                Yeah, Stiles is going to take that as a green light to go ahead. “Does it have to be fresh? Like, could I just have you spit in a jar, and then use that when I need to?” Derek makes a face at this, and Stiles is startled into pausing for a second at just how unused he is to Derek doing _normal_ things sometimes. “I suppose that would have to be a lot of drooling to be of any use, though…”

 

                Derek just shakes his head. “No. It has to be…” His face pinches up like he doesn’t want to say the word.

 

                “…fresh?” Stiles offers.

 

                “Alive.”

 

                Because that sounds any better.

 

                Still, Derek’s answering of the always-coming onslaught of questions, despite his uncomfortable reluctance with some of them, has Stiles’ lips pulling up at the corners. He _is_ appreciative of Derek’s willingness to be more forthright about their questions and even more so, satiate his curiosity, but that doesn’t stop him from pushing at Derek’s buttons with some of them, though.

 

                Derek’s answering of all his questions about the _licking_ that afternoon after Stiles had… calmed down from the incident with the paper cut had opened a damn of Stiles’ more strange questions afterwards. Things had gone from _why did you feel the need to heal up such a small cut that first day?_ (still full of the adrenaline, he’d worked off instinct – to protect the pack and check they were all okay) to this. Or also –

 

                “Brings a whole new level to _kiss it better_ , huh?” Stiles chuckles, watching the way that Derek ignores him, focusing on the sleeve he finally has passed the elbow and most of the scrapped and bloody area. He knows that Derek, excellent multitasker that he is, is still listening for something to _actually_ deem worth responding to, so he finds the lack of reply kind of amusing. “Maybe that was originated by a ‘wolf, you think?”

 

                “Could be,” Derek mutters, and he sounds distracted, though Stiles knows he isn’t, because, see above, but then he’s ducking down –

 

                And pressing his lips to –

 

                Kissing –

 

                What –

 

                The wound. That he is supposed to be _licking_. Or drooling all over. Or something. Not… kissing.

 

                Stiles isn’t prepared for _kissing_! He doesn’t know if he can deal with kissing!

 

                His mouth falls open, shocked. Derek pulls back barely an inch before he’s tilting his head, and leaning in to press another to the mess, lips parted this time. There’s something way more intimate about this way. It’s much slower, much _more_.

 

                His hands, he can feel them shaking, little tremors. His heart is jackhammering like it’s trying to bruise his own ribcage. He suddenly doesn’t want to be sitting on his tabletop, too restless, wanting to step down, back off.

 

                But at he same time, he wants to thread his fingers through Derek’s hair, hold him there and… praise him. Tell him how _nice_ those lips feel. How he bets they would be so soft against his mouth. How he wants to thread his tongue through them, lick his way inside. How when he imagined Derek kissing him, it wouldn’t be his fucking _arm_.

 

                Stiles opens his mouth, about to maybe, probably, shout some variation of _what! what are you doing?!_ But then Derek’s tongue is actually coming out to do its job, and Stiles is still kind of freaking out, but he can’t complain. Not when Derek is doing a kindness for him, with this whole magic healing spit sharing thing.

 

                As much as Stiles would call the confusion and racing heartbeat a hardship, it sure as hell beats the pain and waiting of letting it heal on its own.

 

                So, he bites his lips and squeezes his thighs together, raising his head to the ceiling and counting all the nonexistent cracks he doesn’t see there. There’s not anything that’s _purposefully_ sexual about this. There’s bits of little things that Stiles’ dick _takes_ as motivators, but embarrassingly enough, they’re the more domestic aspects. The little things like the warmth of it, the pressure of where he can feel Derek’s tongue as it drags against him and his mouth moving to each new place he focuses on next. The way Derek holds his arm steady, the feather-soft brush of his palms and fingertips. The proximity, the way that he’s sitting in the chair beside the table, hunched over Stiles’ lap, so close that all the bodily reactions Stiles is having must be impossible to ignore.

 

                Oh, God, of course they are. There’s no way he is coming out of this unscathed. At least Derek probably won’t bring it up later. He’s a _laugh at it during the moment_ rather than a _keep bringing it up, especially in front of everyone else_ kind of person.

 

                That just means that as soon as this is over, Stiles needs to, like, _leave_ as soon as he can stand up, and then they’ll never talk about it. Ingenious.

 

                Ugh.

 

                He wishes he had the use of his arms so he could bury his face in his hands.

 

* * *

 

 

iv.

 

                This time – because it’s happening _again_ somehow – Stiles knows better than to try to keep up a dialogue. He knew better than to start asking any more inane questions the second he’d realized he’d have to pull his shirt off.

 

                He should have known better than to put anything on, should have known that Derek would find out about it sooner or later. He just didn’t know that it would be tonight. He thought he’d have to at least try to protect his sheets from potential bleeding during the night. He wasn’t expecting Derek to come over to ask about something, only to sniff out the pain.

 

                However, he did know enough that when Derek told him to take it off, he’d best find somewhere to situate himself and something to occupy his head so he wouldn’t focus on the way that Derek’s mouth felt against him. So, well, here he was, sitting backwards in his desk chair, hugging the back of it, as Derek leans over him in another seat.

 

                It also didn’t take Stiles long to figure out that this time was going to be even harder on him.

 

                To start, he’d already known that his back was a lot more… sensitive than say, his arm. And though his abrasions from his arms had been much more area for Derek to cover, this one on his back was quite a bit deeper.

 

                (Because, of course, he’d tripped back and fallen onto a perfectly placed _rock_ rather than scraping open his bicep. He’s just lucky that he didn’t sever his _spine_.)

 

                This time is also worse with how Derek is touching him. Instead of just cradling his arm, he’s actually holding Stiles’ hipbone with one hand, one of his fingers accidentally skimming just beneath the waistband. The other hand is somewhere on the desk, something that Stiles lost track of when it was out of his sight.

 

                Not that sight matters after the first lick. Not when the barest touch of Derek’s tongue has Stiles inhaling sharply, jerking ramrod straight. Not when he has to squeeze his eyes shut so he can focus on not moving around, on biting back every little noise that threatens to spill out.

 

                Stiles had been hoping that it was something he could get used to, something that he could try to ignore for the most part after the initial pleasure – er, shock. It wasn’t.

 

                It’s been barely a minute, if that long, if not longer – he can’t tell, time is too complicated for him right now. All his blood has left his brain and traveled south. It’s been barely a minute and he’s already feeling hot all over, a kind of heat that tingles in his veins and makes him sweat despite the fact that he’d just showered.

 

                He’s biting his lip to use the pain to bring him any kind of clarity as his head clouds up in all the arousal that fills him. It’s not working on that aspect, but it’s at least keeping many of his gasps at bay long enough for him to swallow them back down.

 

                He has his fingers curled into the wood of the chair, fingernails digging into the grains of it. The pressure of it almost _hurts_ , but it’s something else for his brain to focus on, even if it only works for a second at a time – usually the brief moments between one warm swipe and the next.

 

                He has absolutely boned up in his jeans, no doubt about it to either of them. He _knows_ that Derek has to smell it – _Stiles_ can practically smell himself with his own human senses – but he _must_ be ignoring it to keep all of his attention healing Stiles. Stiles knows this because Derek doesn’t say a word, or imply that he even notices (but Stiles knows that he _has_ to), but he _keeps going_ , and oh.

 

                Oh, Stiles is going to cream his pants. He is absolutely about to fucking come in his goddamn jeans.

 

                _Especially_ when he accidentally ruts up and into the back of the chair, and Derek’s grip on his hip actually _tightens_ for a quick second before it’s all loose and more of a guide again. He knows that Derek’s response was because he was moving and Derek needs to keep him still, he _knows_ this, but, oh, does he imagine that it’s Derek’s involuntary reaction to _him_. He imagines that Derek couldn’t help himself, and it was a movement akin to clenching his fists – wanting to touch more and unable to.

 

                He would be able to, if he wanted. Stiles would let him. Stiles would let him do _anything_.

 

                As Stiles is thinking this, Derek shifts in his seat, leaning forward for whatever reason (a better angle, his neck was starting to ache, something), and his hair tickles the back of Stiles’ neck. He can’t help the gasp that startles out of him then, but what’s more is that Derek’s _hand_ , it squeezed _again_ , and he wasn’t even moving, and oh, God, he’s _really_ about to, he’s close, he’s _so_ close, oh, _oh –_

And Derek is lifting his head up, apparently finished. His voice is rough, sentences short, when he states, “It’s stopped bleeding,” and pauses, letting out a panting, airy breath. It’s hot air against the cooling, wet skin of Stiles’ back, and he shivers. It only happens once, so maybe Stiles is imagining it. There’s no reason that he can think of for Derek to be breathing so hard after just licking him. “I don’t want to reopen the scabs.”

 

                “Okay, great, thank you,” Stiles blurts out in his haste to reply, thankful he could articulate anything at all. His face is still buried in the crook of his arms over the back of his chair and he plans to keep it there. He will _not_ look at Derek and face the embarrassment of all of this. He _definitely_ won’t turn around when his dick is still throbbing in his boxers, heavy and trapped in the too tight material. He’s already getting the harder to ignore urge to stick his hand down there and adjust it or maybe just stroke it a little (all he needs is a little, he’s almost there, really, please don’t be mad, Derek, he’s _so close –_

“I’ll – ” Derek cuts himself off with a strange, uneven sound, like he was attempting to clear his throat around something. That something probably being all the fucking chemo signals Stiles is wafting around over here. “See you.”

 

                It feels like a separate part of a sentence that he tried to piece to the first one. That’s okay. Stiles isn’t going to call him out on it or try to tease him. Not now. Not like this.

 

                “ _Bye_.”

 

                His voice squeaks. Whatever. He has no pride left to sacrifice. Once Derek leaves, anyway, he’s just going to jack off and then attempt to smother himself in his own humiliation.

 

                He’s only half sure that he hears the window close before he’s biting into his arm and shoving his hand past his straining zipper.

 

* * *

 

 

v.

 

                His thigh. His fucking thigh.

 

                The universe hates him. Or, it’s indifferent, but amused at his suffering. It has to be one of the two. Because.

 

                He somehow (okay, he knew how – stupidly trying to pull an arrow out of his leg so he could run and then tugging it wrongly until it sliced open more skin in a long, skinny line) had injured his upper thigh. Which meant that when Derek came around…

 

                They’re on the bed, now, with Stiles on his back, legs spread and Derek on his stomach between them. He has one hand on the side of the knee that wasn’t bloody. The other one is carefully pressed around the cut that continues to bleed sluggishly, despite time and Derek’s magic spit. He knows that Derek is holding him to keep him from pulling his legs back together, but all he can focus on is the warm heat of Derek’s palms on his bare legs.

 

                Okay. That’s not entirely true. There is a lot to focus on here (that _mouth_ , Derek between his legs, the way it all feels too much like foreplay), but that’s _one_ of them.

 

                Another is the fact that Derek has been kind (or cruel) enough to start from the lowest point, tonguing along it until it knit itself together, so that Stiles could get relax as they got further up. Or at least, that was probably the plan, but he’s only getting more and more keyed up. Just like last time.

 

                Why does Derek keep doing this for him? Is it just because it’s much more serious this time? He’ll probably want to stop if it’s something like another scrape or paper cut, next time. Stiles can’t imagine he’ll want to keep drowning himself in Stiles’ arousal for much longer.

 

                Derek inches higher with the next lap of his tongue, his entire body shifting with him. It looks too much like he’s crawling up the bed to _Stiles_. To get at more tasty parts of him than just his stupid goddamn _leg_.

 

                It’s just too much. He can’t help it.

 

                “ _Nnngh_.”

 

                A couple things happen at once. Stiles thinks his eyes roll back before they squeeze shut, but otherwise can’t see anything past the exploding, colorful fireworks behind his eyelids. He’s almost glad for that; he knows the sight down there will probably, legitimately kill him. One of his hands come up cover his mouth, which has fallen open because he’s started to pant like a dog in fucking heat. The other one has shot down to fist into Derek’s hair, as if to hold him back from going any further.

 

                He’s way too close to Stiles’ boxers. One more lick and he’d be teasing the edges of them, Stiles is sure of it.

 

                He knows that it doesn’t matter if Derek kills him for the hair thing, because if he even starts to brush his nose – because that’s what he has been doing now, nosing the skin and then licking it, so bizarrely intimate for something that shouldn’t be – against his underwear, Stiles will die on the spot.

 

                He’s long past trying to hide the fact that he’s too turned on for this. If Derek couldn’t smell it, he’d still sure as hell see it. His boxers are wet and are about as tight as one would expect with a man like Derek having his face this close to them. As for everything else – Stiles is bright red, he can _feel_ it, and he’s soaking in his own sweat. His own shirt is sticking to his chest and it feels like he’ll have to peel it off when this is all over. If he is still alive by then.

 

                He isn’t counting on it.

 

                Maybe they should stop. It wasn’t like this wound was all that dangerous, anyway. It was just deep and painful and had a higher risk of infection, but… It wasn’t going to, like, _kill_ him or anything. Probably. (Just another thing to add to the list, Stiles supposed.)

 

                Besides, Derek has lapped at a good portion of it already, so it’ll probably heal up much sooner than it would have before. He doesn’t need to keep going. He should probably leave. Especially if Stiles wants to keep his sanity from this – he knows he sure as hell isn’t keeping his pride.

 

                Taking in a deep, shaky breath, he cracks open one eyelid as he prepares to tell Derek this. He’s unprepared for the sight that greets him.

 

                Greet is a sweet, underwhelming word for it, really. It’s more like a kick in the goddamn chest, making him dizzy and breathless, trying to find some of the godforsaken oxygen that keeps leaving him.

 

                Derek is watching him. Stiles’ hand is still clasped in his hair, but it couldn’t deter Derek tilting his head up to stare back at Stiles’ face. His eyes are dark, so dark they almost hide the wild hunger that Stiles sees in them. He looks like he wants to go further. He _needs_ to go further. _Stiles_ needs him to go further.

 

                Neither of them says anything for a long moment; the bedroom’s silence broken up only by heavy puffs of air and the overwhelming pounding of Stiles’ heart.

 

                Under his gaze, Derek licks his lips, a long, slow movement of his tongue.

 

                It feels like a question – a request.

 

                “Yes,” Stiles whispers, compelled to answer. That single word is so loud in the quiet room.

 

                Derek’s mouth falls open and with only a second of hesitance, he pushes the fabric of Stiles’ boxers up with his warm, hot, hot hand. His palm drags along the skin of Stiles’ inner thigh until he is practically cupping the tent Stiles is making. He gasps at the touch.

 

                His flesh is alive everywhere that Derek touched, like the heat of him was enough to boil the blood zinging through him.

 

                Derek holds his eyes as he leans in again and drags his tongue along the edge of the remainder of the cut. Stiles’ toes curl into the comforter at Derek’s sides. His hands, now fallen away, reach away to twist into the lips of the mattress. He knows without being told, not to cover his mouth again, quiet his noises. It’s the intensity and weight of Derek’s stare – the way he drinks in every bit of Stiles that he has to offer.

 

                “Please.”

 

                The word is a broken, actual _plea_ to go further. It’s exactly what Derek needs him to say.

 

                His lips curl as he presses forward to trace his tongue along the patch of newly exposed skin, edging along what is still covered. His mouth has practically found its home in the crease of Stiles’ leg with how comfortable it seems to be. That smile is wicked like that, almost sinful, open with his tongue coming out to meet Stiles’ flesh.

 

                Derek’s fingers curl into the tops of Stiles’ boxers, poised and ready to pull them down. Stiles swallows, what feels like a solid weight stuck in his throat.

 

                He wants it.

 

                Needs it.

 

                _Craves_ it.

 

                “ _Derek_ ,” he whines. There is no other word for it, no dignity in it. It’s a beg, all on its own.

 

                Derek complies.

 

* * *

 

 

\+ i.

 

                “You just did all this to get into my pants, didn’t you?” Stiles asks sometime later, when the sweat has cooled and their slow movements were lazy rather than purposeful. He doesn’t actually believe it, at least not entirely. Maybe it started as a way to actually help him heal. Maybe this outcome was always a secondary goal.

 

                But that’s assuming that Derek had the patience to plan it out rather than running on instinct.

 

                “Does it matter?” Derek asks in return, but it’s not really a question. Not when he bites Stiles’ neck so hard afterwards that any reply that could have been becomes garbled nonsense. “It worked, didn’t it?”

 

                Stiles barks out a laugh, half surprised, but he can’t really argue with that.

 

                “You’re such an ass,” he says instead, but the fondness in his voice replaces the sting of the words, and tugs on Derek’s hair until he lifts his head back up to meet Stiles in a kiss. He bites at Stiles’ lips, but Stiles knows he’ll kiss it better.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed!!
> 
> see you guys in another month or whatever *crawls back into my hole*


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